


soft, softer, softly

by heartstrings



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Knotting, M/M, POV Outsider, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings
Summary: Dylan Strome is a late bloomer.





	soft, softer, softly

**Author's Note:**

> The alternate summary for this fic could probably be: Jonny and Patrick teach Dylan how to alpha.
> 
> I tried to keep most of the hockey bits as close to canon as possible, but please excuse any unintentional goofs or intentional changes for ~plot~ reasons.
> 
> Shoutout to [this post](http://reserve.tumblr.com/post/181498149385/whats-soft-alpha-energy-you-ask-soft-alpha) for inspiring the whole thing.
> 
> And, of course, thank you a million to toewsyourheart for the encouragement and support, and to thundersquall for the beta and unending cheerleading. <3

Alex is small, that’s what first catches Dylan’s attention. Smaller than any other player on the ice, which says something since Dylan hasn’t even hit five feet and ten inches yet. There are whispers that he’s an omega too, but Dylan isn’t sure that’s true. He moves around like a beta, indifferent to the alphas on the team and in his own separate world, focused on his own game. He has a sniper shot good enough to make guys twice his size weep.

The team goes through their regular drills and Dylan watches Alex skate, compact and fast as he barrels past one of their bigger defenseman, six foot two, already full of muscle. Dylan feels gangly and long in between them. Nothing like this kid who has a five o’clock shadow dotting over his blocky jaw. In comparison, Dylan hasn’t shaved in a week and still looks fresh as a fucking baby’s bottom, forgot to take a shower this morning, and is wearing his unwashed Under Armour that only faintly smells. It’s probably weird he hit puberty at fifteen, but barely sweats and still hasn’t presented.

He’s a gigantic fucking question mark.

It’s good he’s pretty okay at this hockey thing because the rest of him is a little awkward and inexplicable.

*

They’re two months into the season when Alex gets his first hat trick. His smile is so wide Dylan can’t help but rush into his arms and lift him off the ice as they slam into the boards. It was Connie’s pass that helped him bury it in the third, but it was Dylan who won the board battle to get possession of the puck again and he takes pride in the fact he helped make this possible for Alex, even in a small way.

After the boys hear from Coach and begin to shower, dress, and head out for the night, Dylan hangs back to watch Alex talk to the media. He’s still smiling. His entire face lit up as he talks about his hat trick, eyes sparkling and teeth bright against his red mouth. It’s mesmerizing.

He knows it’s weird to hang around like this. It’s not as if he and Alex are friends. They’ve talked about hockey, and gone to team parties together, but that’s team stuff. That isn’t...whatever the fuck Dylan’s doing here. 

He’s just about made up his mind to turn around and leave when Alex’s interview ends and he abruptly moves in Dylan’s direction. He pauses when he gets to the doorway Dylan’s leaning against, unable to get through.

“Oh, sorry.” He steps back.

“If you’re going to keep staring might as well take a picture,” Alex says as he brushes past.

Dylan’s stomach drops through the floor. “I don’t have my phone with me.”

It’s a dumb thing to say and the only thing that immediately came to mind. His cheeks flush immediately and he looks away, up toward the sky, then to the ground. Maybe it’ll open and swallow him whole.

From his periphery, he can see Alex blink at him twice before he barks out a laugh, the edges of his mouth curved up high.

“What are you up to?”

“Remmer’s throwing a party.” Dylan shrugs.

“You going?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Are you?”

Alex laughs again, shakes his head a little. Dylan’s not sure if he’s being stupid or funny. He shoves his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet. He should just leave. Yeah, he should definitely go before he makes this even weirder.

“Well, my billet family is out at the movies so I was going to grab a pizza and watch some Black Mirror at the house. You want to come?”

 _Me_? Dylan wants to ask. Except he’s the only other person in the locker room. Of course, Alex means him. The knowledge sits like a warm, gooey brownie inside his guts and he nods, too vigorously. 

Alex gestures for him to follow when he heads out toward the arena’s parking lot and Dylan goes easily. Later he’ll think about what this means and why he didn’t examine it, why he let Alex tell him what to do and if maybe everyone’s whispers are wrong. If this answers some question he’s been silently asking himself.

His mom likes to say ‘all in good time’ about these types of things, but Dylan, he’s tired of waiting.

*

Mitchy’s making out with a redhead across the room from him as Drake’s _Started From the Bottom_ plays loudly throughout the house. 

Dylan doesn’t know whose random house they’re in. Some kid from the Knights. Some kid Mitchy knows.

Alex was the one who suggested they come instead of hanging out and watching shitty TV in their hotel room again. Dylan likes watching shitty TV in the hotel with Alex, going over the highlights of the game they played, debating better ways to improve the power play, or getting Baptiste to prank Connie when he’s out of his room. Instead, he’s at this party drinking piss warm beer while all of his friends are off hooking up, sitting on a scratchy ancient couch trying to not look at Mitchy dry hump a girl clearly out of his league.

He’s seriously considering bouncing and going back to the hotel to sleep before they leave for Erie in the morning when Alex appears like an angel, heavenly light glowing behind from the open doorway. He takes a heavy seat next to Dylan on the couch, glancing at the tangle of limbs across the room and makes a disgusted face, shuddering as he turns back to Dylan. 

“Gimme,” he says, gesturing towards Dylan’s beer.

Dylan hands it over, staring as Alex downs the whole thing in one go, his throat working as he swallows again and again. The column of his throat is a deep pink and covered in a sheen of slick sweat. Dylan wants to run his fingers down over that damp skin and feel the wetness on his fingertips. He wants it so badly he feels a little dizzy with it.

“You wanna go?” he asks. “I’m kind of over this.”

Alex shakes his head. “I wanna ask you somethin’.”

He sways a little when he tries to sit upright and Dylan fits a hand to the small of his back, shoring him up.

“What are you?” Alex says, poking at his chest. Right in the solar plexus where it hurts, the little fucker.

“A center?” Dylan replies, confused.

Alex laughs. A giggle bubbling up and out of his mouth as he squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking. “No, idiot. I mean what are _YOU_?”

He pins Dylan with a look, Dylan’s entire body stilling at the question, at the fact that he doesn’t have a good answer.

He melts into the couch and away. “Oh. Um. I don’t know. I haven’t presented yet.”

Alex’s eyes widen. “Really? How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“I presented the day I turned sixteen.”

“Lucky you,” Dylan sighs. He tries not to but he can feel his face turning down into a frown.

Alex leans backward, wedging himself into the couch beside Dylan, the smallest space separating them. “Not lucky, really. Just early.”

“Doesn’t it make it easier? Knowing?”

“I guess,” Alex says, rolling his head toward Dylan. His eyes sparkle in the low light of the room and when he lowers them his eyelashes are so long and so dark they look like spider legs fanned against his cheek. “But there’s also a lot of...expectations, once people know what you are. There’s a lot of assumptions too. Not all of them good. Especially when you’re like me.”

“Tiny?”

Alex looks up at him sharply, the expression dissolving when Dylan tugs him into his side with an arm around his shoulders. “Fuck off,” Alex says. He tries to push him away, to move free, but Dylan holds firm until Alex goes limp. “I know I’d be better if I were bigger. I’ve heard it my whole life.”

The music switches to a new song, something slower and melodic, quiet enough Dylan can hear the smacking of mouths and lusty moans from across the room. He and Alex make eye contact, gagging at each other until they both crack up.

“I think you’re better than everyone else out there right now,” Dylan says, in between breaths. “As you are.” 

“You’re dumb,” Alex says, but he’s smiling.

*

There’s a bottle of Grey Goose between Dylan’s legs and he tips it up towards his mouth to take a long pull. It burns all the way down like acid sizzling against his skin. His eyes water as he drinks again. He’s going for a third when Alex pulls the bottle away to snag a drink of his own.

“This fucking blows,” Alex says, slurred. His eyes are red-rimmed and far away.

They lost the Robertson Cup two days ago to the Oshawa Generals. They lost the series four to one. It wasn’t even close, and yet after they took the Western Conference it felt close enough he was already imagining the Cup in his hands, above his head.

They pissed it away, letting Oshawa win the first two games in a landslide before deciding to fight back and by then it was too late. Alex’s taken it harder than anyone.

“I know.”

“We were so close!” Alex says, dragging a hand over his face and up into his hair. He yanks on the ends of it like he wants to rip it all out. “Goddammit.”

“I know,” Dylan says because he’s not sure how to make this better. He cups his hand around Alex’s knee and holds it, holds onto it.

Alex doesn’t notice, too caught up in his own head. “I should’ve been better.” 

“Hey. Whoa. You were great out there. It’s not your fault.”

“I couldn’t fucking score. It is. It’s my fault,” Alex says, taking another drink. He hisses as the vodka goes down. He’s flushed all over and clumsy as he waves his arms around.

They’ve been down in his billet parent’s basement for the last few hours, sitting in the back of the room, on the concrete, as a way to hide themselves and the stolen alcohol if anyone decides to check on them.

Dylan nudges Alex with his elbow, in the spot by his ribs where he’s most ticklish. He thinks about the almost-goals and the plays that never quite came together, how his part in every one of them fell short. Maybe if he wasn’t so far behind everyone else he would’ve been able to play better. Maybe if he’d presented he wouldn’t hesitate at times and question what he should do. It’s a stupid, stereotypical way to think, but it’s been branded into his head over the years that alphas always know what to do, how to do it, how to make shit happen. That betas are always calm in the face of others’ highs and lows. That omegas know how to fight through adversity. 

But what if he’s none of these things? If he’s nothing?

Beside him Alex’s cheeks are tear-streaked, his nose snotty as he wipes at it. Dylan squeezes his knee gently, once, then twice. He doesn’t let go.

“We all could’ve been better, tried harder. It’s not on you, Kit. We’ll get ‘em next year.”

“Next year,” Alex echoes.

Around them, the basement feels hollow.

*

It should hurt less losing out in the Western Conference instead of the final this time. It doesn’t. It stings just as much. The bruise of being swept by the fucking London Knights makes it rawer, like just touching the edge of it sends shock waves of pain through him. This was supposed to be their redemption after last year.

This was supposed to be their win, their time. 

“This fucking blows,” Alex says, and Dylan feels transported back to last year. 

They’re in the same basement too. Whiskey instead of vodka. No space between them.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan whispers. He opens his mouth to tell Alex how much when he’s cut off.

“Don’t.” He says it a little meanly, but Dylan knows he’s not mad at him, only at the situation, at the loss. “This was supposed to be our year and we pissed it away and now you’re leaving.”

Alex’s arm is at his side, his fisted hand resting on the floor, Dylan presses their knuckles together, brushes them back and forth, the bones inside of their skin catching and releasing, trying to find something to lock onto.

“I’ll come back next year.”

Alex tilts his head back, stares up at the ceiling as if he can see through it to the stars, to some answering sky. “No, you won’t. You’ll be too busy being a big NHL star. Making the big bucks. Hooking up with all the hot betas.” 

He smiles teasingly for a moment, the light flickering briefly in his eyes before going dull again. Dylan smiles back, brittle. He feels so paper thin.

“What makes you think I want a beta?”

He’s staring at the side of Alex’s face, at the stubble he can’t ever seem to fully get rid of. Alex doesn’t look back.

“I don’t know. That’s who I’ve seen you around with.”

Dylan laughs, an empty sound. “Yeah, because betas don’t care that I still haven’t presented yet like a fucking loser.”

They share the bottle back forth for a while, the room getting darker as the sun begins to set and the small windows near the top of the wall grow dark. 

“It’ll happen,” Alex says, knowing and confident. He rests his head on Dylan’s shoulder, pressing into his side.

“Will it?” he asks.

“Yes. Next year. Next year will be our year.”

Dylan wants to believe.

*

“Fucking finally!” Dylan shouts, yanking Alex into a hug and pressing his face into sweaty, badly dyed blond hair.

“FUCK-ING FIN-A-LLY, BUDDY!” Alex shouts. It pierces through Dylan’s ear but he doesn’t care, just so deliriously happy they did it, they won. They won the Robertson Cup!

He can’t make himself let go. This isn’t the first hug of the night or the first time they’ve said these words to each other since the game ended. It still feels new and electric every time he speaks them, joy zinging through all of his nerves, from his core and into his limbs, the ones wrapped so tight around Alex he can’t imagine not holding onto him as they laugh through it all.

They found each other on the ice, then again in the locker room, and now, in the parking lot, two of the last to amble out amongst their teammates, silly with victory, everything overwhelming but real, real, real. 

They did it.

They won _together_.

In the background, amid their chaos and endless strings of gleeful cursing bursts through a sweet, delicate voice.

“You guys are so cute.”

She’s a tiny thing, even smaller than Alex, with almost white blonde hair and a heart-shaped mouth, freckles dotted over her nose. Dylan looks at her and blinks. He’s never seen her before, has no idea who she is, but Alex disengages from their hug, walking over to her and kissing her quickly on her temple.

“Hey,” he says quietly. His voice is tender and private.

Dylan blinks again. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, smiling sheepishly. “It’s just, your parents were asking for you.”

“Oh shit. I forgot I told them I’d meet them out front.”

“I can tell them.”

“You’re the best,” Alex says, smiling brightly at her. When she turns to go he stops at her. “Wait, come meet Dylan first.”

“Oh my god, this is Dylan?” she asks, excited. “I should’ve guessed, to be honest. He talks about you all the time. He misses you so much. Even if he doesn’t tell you.” She whispers this last part conspiratorially like it’s an inside joke between them.

Dylan didn’t even know she existed until two minutes ago. It lands like a low punch to the nuts, his stomach flipping sickly. He needs to sit down, but he can’t. He can’t do anything but smile back at both of them brightly, his lips pulled tight enough he thinks his face might crack and break off.

“Oh, hey. Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice wobbly. He shakes Cara’s hand stiffly like some weird businessman ready to sit down in his office and talk tax returns.

Behind Cara, Alex’s brow furrows briefly before it smooths out. “We’re going out to dinner with my parents and hers tomorrow after things calm down. You want to come?”

“That’s uh, that’s a really nice offer. But I have to get back to Arizona. They’re expecting me for end of the season shit, team meetings, and things.”

It’s not entirely true, but Alex doesn’t know that, doesn’t need to know.

He seems to sense it anyway by the way his eyes narrow. “Right.”

Cara slips off to give them time to say goodbye and it hits Dylan suddenly that this is really goodbye. There won’t be any more Erie hockey after this. He’ll be firmly in Arizona and Alex will be in Chicago, hundreds of miles apart. He can already feel how the time lost between them has changed things, reshaped them. There’s so much he doesn’t know anymore and it’s only going to get worse. He wishes fiercely there was some way to go back and start over, to live it all again so he could appreciate every minute, every minuscule second. But he can’t. All he can do is filter through his memories like a million precious artifacts laid out on a treasure map he can no longer use.

“C’mere,” he says, throat thick as he tucks Alex into his side. He tugs on his yellow hair, pressing his face to the top of Alex’s head. “Proud of you, Kit.”

Alex digs his nails into Dylan’s back until it stings. “Proud of you, Captain.”

“Wish I didn’t have to go back,” he says. When what he actually means is _I wish I could stay_.

Alex shakes his head, pushes him away, smiling that same devastating smile Dylan remembers from the first day he saw him on the ice. A smile that always fills him with warmth, even as it’s breaking him apart. “You have to go and light it up. Show those assholes what we all see here every day.”

Dylan nods.

He goes.

He doesn’t look back.

*

_**BREAKING:** The #Blackhawks have acquired forwards Dylan Strome and Brendan Perlini from Arizona in exchange for forward Nick Schmaltz._

_Strome (AAV $863,333) is signed through the 2019-20 season and Perlini (AAV $863,333) is signed through the 2018-19 campaign._

Dylan stares at the tweet as he collects his things from the locker room. Again when he’s boarding the plane for Chicago, Perls outwardly placid beside him, like many betas.

They don’t talk much on the plane. He knows Perls is a mix of anxious excitement and worry. Going to a new team means a lot of things: new routines, new team dynamics, new leadership, trying to find a place where to fit and how to fit, and never knowing if it’ll all click the way it should. Dylan can’t quite share those sentiments when he’s too busy practically buzzing out of his seat, eager to get to his new home.

 _Home_ , he thinks and feels elation ignite within him.

He’s ready to draw a new map.

*

Alex is waiting for them when they get down to baggage claim. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, expression glowing behind the full beard he’s sporting. Dylan knows he should probably play it cool, but he doesn’t give a fuck as he rushes up into Alex’s space and slams into him, enveloping him in his arms.

They both laugh as they rock back and forth, holding onto each other as if they’ll fall off the earth if they let go.

“You got fucking tall,” Alex says, tilting his head back to look up at Dylan. His eyes are shockingly blue. Were they always this blue?

“I did,” Dylan says quietly. _You’re still short_ , he thinks of saying, but doesn’t. He isn’t sure Alex would take it how he means, that he fits so perfectly in Dylan’s arms now. Just how he was meant to.

“Among other things.”

He means Dylan finally presenting. It’s crazy what a year can do, how he feels both more settled in himself than he’s ever been, and more unsettled with the world around him. If there’s a pecking order to things then technically he’s now found his place, but it only makes it all feel more complicated rather than less. Still, there’s this, the smell of warmth that Alex gives off, so familiar and comforting to him. At least that hasn’t changed. Embarrassingly he wants to rub himself around in it like some demented cat.

“Shut up,” Dylan says, half laughing and choking at the way Alex’s eyebrows are wagging at him.

“I’m glad you’re here. You’ll have to tell me about...everything.”

“Me too, man. Me fucking too.”

After he introduces Alex and Perls, they retrieve their baggage and drop Perls off at his hotel, they’re headed to Alex’s place when Dylan’s phone pings.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“What is it?” Alex says. “They didn’t decide to return you already, did they?”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately for you, no. It’s a text from Jonathan Toews welcoming me to the team and letting me know I can call him if I need anything. Wow. Surreal.”

“Look at you all fucking moon-eyed.”

“Should I text back? What do I say? How’d he even get my number?”

Alex puffs out a laugh. “I gave it to him, idiot. He wanted to make sure you got in okay. He’s a good guy. You’ll like him. Now tell him thank you and I’ve got you covered.”

“Listen, Beardy,” Dylan starts. He gets busy texting Jonathan Toews. The Jonathan Toews. Like they’re fucking pals or something and forgets what he was going to say.

Beside him Alex is messing with his phone, trying to find a song to listen, as they wait in traffic. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he saw Dylan at the airport and Dylan doesn’t know if his face is doing the same or something even worse, giving away all of his secrets. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

*

“Hey remember that time you said fuck the Blackhawks, those cheating, cry baby bitches?” Dylan asks. 

He’s standing in Alex’s game room, a pool table in the middle, with his various awards and hockey paraphernalia, hung up around the room. In one corner is a giant framed photograph of him celebrating his first NHL hat trick, his arms raised and joyous as Blackhawks fans cheer in the background, hats littered on the ice. He notes the date at the bottom, November 2017. Three years after his first OHL hat trick. 

There’s a certain kind of symmetry in that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex says, feigning innocence.

Dylan pulls out his phone and unlocks it. “I have the tweet here somewhere if you need reminding.”

“Good luck finding it,” he says, reaching out and snatching Dylan’s phone, pocketing it. “I deleted that shit last year.”

Dylan lets him have it, for the moment.

"Probably wise, considering."

“Considering.” Alex nods, glancing around the room as well, at the things he’s accomplished in his career, at what he’s accomplished already in Chicago.

“Are you happy? Here, I mean.” It’s something Dylan’s wanted to ask for a while now. It’s something he didn’t ask because he wasn’t sure how he’d answer in return if Alex asked him about Arizona.

They have so much catching up to do.

“I am,” Alex says, one corner of his mouth curving up. “The team is struggling, but the boys are great. A good group of guys. They’ll make you feel right at home. Especially Tazer and Kaner.”

Tazer and Kaner. Toews and Kane. Synonymous with Chicago, with three Stanley Cups. It’s not often Dylan gets starstruck by other hockey players, but it’s so weird to realize these people he watched as a kid are going to be his teammates, and maybe his friends. That he’s going to play with them. It’s like waking up one day and realizing Spongebob Squarepants is your neighbor.

That comparison could use some work, but still. Bizarre.

“How’s Cara liking it?” he asks, hesitant.

The grin falls from Alex’s face, he turns to mess with one of his awards, rubbing his T-shirt over a part that’s smudged. “Um, Cara moved back home over the summer. We broke it off.”

“Oh.”

“I think she thought she’d be okay being with another omega long term, but then realized maybe she wasn’t ready to give up her shot at being with an alpha when she was, you know, only nineteen.”

It catches Dylan off guard to hear Alex refer to himself as an omega. It’s the first time Dylan can ever remember him doing so in all the years they’ve known each other. He’s never once acted ashamed of who he is or his dynamic, but he doesn’t talk about it much either, preferring to create his own footprint instead of the one everyone else has cemented for him to step in.

This, her reason for leaving, can’t make it easy. And Dylan doesn’t know what to say. His own experience is limited, about as awkward as him, and mostly with betas.

“She doesn’t deserve you then.”

“Yeah well,” Alex shrugs. “Let me show you to the guest bedroom.”

And that’s the end of that conversation. Dylan follows after him, more than fine with moving on to easier subjects.

“Guest room? So fancy,” he teases.

This time Alex rolls his eyes. “Only the best for you, boo.”

*

His first practice goes smoothly. They cheer when he and Perls step out onto the ice, but quickly they’re pulled into the fold and treated like just any of the other boys, Coach correcting some of his face-off maneuvers and Seabrook-Seabs throwing around nickname options for him.

“Stretch. Stretcher? No. Giraffe? No. Pillar? Hmm. Nah.”

“Stromer?” Dylan says. It’s what most guys call him.

“Stringer?” Seabs offers back. “Ya know, like a string bean?”

Behind him, Duncan Keith snorts.

“Uh,” Dylan says.

“No, I can do better,” Seabs says, deciding against it. “We’ll figure it out, bud. Don’t you worry.”

“Hah, yeah. Can’t wait,” Dylan laughs weakly.

Seabs slaps him on the back, hard enough he scoots across the ice three or four paces. The energy in this group is high, and it’s not just the alphas either. There’s a confidence in the air despite where the team sits in the rankings, like they’ll pull themselves up. Dylan can feel it dripping from the leadership, thick enough he’s swept up in it too, glowing by the time practice is over and eager for the next game, to play his ass off.

Jonathan Toews stops him in the locker room after his post-practice interview to say hello.

“I know the Cat has got you covered, but I just wanted to let you know I’m around if you need anything. Don’t hesitate to hit me up.”

Even though they’re about the same height Toews feels taller somehow, bigger and more intimidating. His eyes look almost black and intense in a way that makes Dylan glad this guy is on his side.

“I will. Thanks. Thank you, uh, Jonathan?”

“Jonny. Or Tazer. Most of the boys just call me Tazer,” he says, a smile rising over his face.

“Tazer,” he says. “Awesome. Thank you, again.”

“No problem. Welcome aboard,” Tazer grins, ruffling his hair as he goes, still smiling.

The expression, the affection, somehow doesn’t make him any less intense, just more approachable, like Dylan’s pleased a parent or something. It’s a confusing and nice feeling.

“Good first day?” A voice asks him a little later as he’s walking out of the building to meet Alex in the parking lot.

The voice belongs to Patrick Kane.

Dylan’s life is weird.

“Oh yeah! It was great. Super great. I just feel very welcomed and that helps with adjusting and… being the new guy. So it’s been amazing so far,” he says like he’s giving a fucking media approved sound bite.

Kane glances at him amused. “I’m sure Jonny gave you his whole monotone _welcome aboard_ spiel,” he says, affecting an over the top wooden tone as he imitates Tazer. “Some rookies and newbies think he just says that to be polite, but he means it. We’re a family here, you need anything call him or me, okay?”

“Are you sure?” Dylan asks. Stunned.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Give me your phone.”

Dylan unlocks it and hands it over without question. When Patrick Kane asks for your phone you don’t make him wait, you just do it, quickly. With rapt attention he watches as Kane goes to his contacts and programs his number in, typing Kaner in the slot for his name.

“There you go,” he hands it back, simple as that. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Yeah!” Dylan says, waving. He still feels tongue-tied as he sees Kaner walk towards Tazer’s Tesla. Tazer opens the passenger door for him and holds it while Kaner throws his gear bag in the backseat and then sits down. Tazer’s head disappears inside the car for an instant as he smoothly leans into the car. From here Dylan can’t make out what they’re saying or even what exactly is going on, but when Tazer steps back and stands up straight to walk to the driver’s side he’s got a smirk pulling at his mouth.

“What’d you think so far?” Alex asks as they’re on their way back to his place.

Dylan groans, tilting his head back against the headrest. “I think I made an ass out of myself in front of Kane and Toews.”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, I did. Can we even be sure I spoke intelligible English? Who knows?”

Alex gives him a look. “You’ll get used to them. They’re just huge fucking nerds when you get down to it.”

“Is it…”

“Is it what?”

“Do they always leave practice together?”

“Not always,” Alex says. He doesn’t expound further and Dylan lets it go, happy to discuss the other aspects of practice and the upcoming game.

“...he almost named me Stringer, dude. It sounds like what you’d name a bad shit after. ‘It was pretty wet and long, clung to my ass, a real stringer, you know?’”

Alex laughs hard enough he starts coughing. “Thank you for that disgusting mental image.”

“You’re welcome,” Dylan tells him, pleased.

*

The thing about joining a losing team is: they lose a lot. A lot. And it sucks. It’s hard to keep the room upbeat and the boys in a good mood when it’s just loss after loss. Morale tends to be low.

There’s something about this locker room though, something about this group of guys. Even when the chips are down it never feels like they’re quite out of the game, or as if the locker room is about to fracture and splinter apart. Dylan knows part of that is due to Alex. He wasn’t on his own in Arizona, but it wasn’t like this either, commiserating with his best friend after a shitheap of a game, seeing the way Tazer, Seabs, Duncs, Kaner, Saader, Hayds, all pull the rest of the boys together and say with such conviction, “We’ll get ‘em next time.” Like it’s a foregone conclusion.

He’s optimistic. Hopeful. For the first time in a long time.

Across the locker room, he sees Kaner fiddling with his gear in his stall, making sure it’s all exactly right where he wants it to be. It was a tough loss tonight against the Jets and Kaner is taking it especially hard even with the two assists he racked up. Dylan’s noticed he seems to be harder on himself on the nights he doesn’t score goals. He’s also noticed that Tazer tends to hover around closer to him on those nights too, never very far from his orbit.

Tazer’s goofing around with Arty, their arms moving in some approximation of a dance or maybe a handshake, Dylan can’t tell. When they finish he sends Arty off with a rough back slap and turns in Kaner’s direction, stepping up quietly to his side. They talk in hushed tones for several moments, Tazer’s hand coming up to settle in the middle of Kaner’s back. It’s almost enthralling to take in the subtle ways they both move and make room for each other, like a well-oiled system that’s been working this way for years, and Dylan supposes they have. Still, his eyes are transfixed on that steady hand on Kaner’s back, the way Tazer’s fingers gently - and there is no other possible word for it - scritch over Kaner’s spine, up and down in the slowest of motions. 

Kaner rests his head against Tazer’s temple and chuckles at something whispered to him, the frown fighting to stay on his mouth now dissolving into something softer. They don’t move away from each other for several long minutes.

Dylan knows he shouldn’t keep looking. It feels invasive to watch this private thing between them, whatever it is, whatever it means. Maybe it’s just Tazer being a good captain, a good alpha, taking care of his teammate and friend. There’s a disparity between what Dylan knows an alpha should do and be, and what he sees in himself, what he feels like he should do. Most of the time what he thinks he should do and what he ends up doing don’t fit because he’s too gangly, too strange, too wrong.

He should’ve been a beta. 

If he was beta he could sit down next to Alex and shove him into his stall, throw a few gloves at his head until he stops sulking and laughs. But he’s not, he’s an alpha, and he can’t fuck it up. He can’t be too rough or not rough enough, can’t drop the ball and let his team down.

He can’t let Alex down.

Across the room Tazer’s hand has migrated from Kaner’s back to the nape of his neck, not holding, just touching, letting Kaner know he’s there. It works, Kaner’s shoulders lowering from where they were tense and high, now relaxed, his hand tangled in the front of Tazer’s shirt.

Dylan presses a sweaty hand to Alex’s shoulder blade and squeezes. “We got this.”

Alex glances up at him, unsure.

“We can turn it around.”

He’s gifted with a small nod and Alex leaning back into his hand in return.

*

There were classes when he was younger, that all the kids had to take. Health and dynamic classes, where they were taught the differences and similarities between alphas, betas, and omegas. Most of it was boring anatomy crap that he barely paid attention to, stuff he already knew about because of listening to other adults, or through watching porn on his laptop late at night, or the way most kids pick up bits and pieces of knowledge about life through pop culture. 

At the time he didn’t take it too seriously, figuring he’d sort it out as it came to him. That was when he was thirteen and all of his friends were beginning to present. That was when he was sixteen and feeling left behind, but still young enough to catch up. That was when he was eighteen and hoping when he did finally present it’d all magically make sense. At twenty-one, he knows different.

And if he has to look to the only examples around him to decipher what a good alpha should be, well, he can’t complain, there are some pretty great examples at his disposal.

*

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d presented?” Alex asks him later that night. They’ve been watching TV for the last hour, flipping between ESPN and Comedy Central.

Dylan’s been dozing on the couch for twenty minutes while Alex sits in the recliner fiddling between his phone and the remote. When the words break through the quiet of the room his eyes dart over to Alex so quickly it hurts his head for a second.

He tries to think of a reasonable response.

He thinks. And thinks. And thinks until too much time has passed and now it probably just looks like he’s trying to come up with a lie. “I don’t know,” he says.

Alex purses his mouth. “Really? I don’t buy that.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Alex stares at him incredulously for a long beat. “What fucking happened! That’s why I asked.”

Dylan was hoping they could’ve just gone on not having had this conversation. He’s thought about it before he even knew he was coming to Chicago, and in all the time since then and now, and he hasn’t been able to come up with a way of explaining why he didn’t tell Alex right after other than that as happy as he was when it happened he still felt like a fucking loser for it having taken so long. 

He sighs, feeling pathetic. “You were off having an amazing rookie year and I was a third overall draft pick in the AHL, disappointing everyone. When it happened it didn’t seem to really matter. It was just another thing that I didn’t do fast enough, right enough.”

This explanation doesn’t appear to soothe Alex even a little.

“You should’ve told me.”

“Why?” Dylan asks, his voice a hushed blip.

“Because I was....,” Alex starts, his words softer now. “Because I’m your best friend, asshole.”

*

Beating the Pens puts everyone in a good mood. Murph invites the boys over to his place for an impromptu party of sorts, ordering food and offering drinks. Most of the older guys with wives and kids bow out or only stay for an hour, the rest of the team ending up in Murph’s game room, shooting pool or playing his PS4 and drinking IPA’s.

Dylan spends most of the night teasing Alex about not being old enough to drink yet, even though no one around them gives two shits. It’s a fun game, Alex’s cheeks pinking and his head ducking down in exasperation every time Dylan asks him for an ID before going to fetch them refills.

They’re tucked together at the end of one Murph’s couches, debating over whether _Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle_ is better than _Superbad_ when Dylan realizes he has to piss right the fuck now. He leaves a drowsy Alex watching Dom and Saader play _FIFA_.

He’s not exactly sure where the bathroom is and ends up circling the first floor twice before he heads up the stairs in search of another bathroom easier to find. He’s to the end of the hallway when he hears whispered voices and almost turns around. But his curiosity gets the better of him and he figures it can’t hurt to take a peek. Plus he really kind of needs that bathroom before he pisses himself.

“Let’s go home,” a low voice says. It sounds a lot like Kaner, and Dylan realizes he disappeared from the rest of the group a bit ago. Tazer too. Which means...

“We should stay for a while. We just got here,” Tazer says, and he sounds indulgent, playful. 

Dylan edges closer until he can see the two of them through the crack of the open door. Tazer’s leaning against the sink, resting against it in a slouch so he’s closer to Kaner’s height who’s standing in front of him, inches away, his legs parted to make room for Tazer’s leg that’s in the middle. Kaner’s arms are loose around Tazer’s shoulders, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt. They both look flushed as they stare at one another, Kaner’s expression flirty, teasing.

“Rather go home and get you naked.”

“Me too,” Tazer grins, tugging Kaner nearer if that’s possible. “Just a little longer.”

“If I must,” Kaner sighs.

“Hey, don’t go yet. Kiss me first.”

“If I must,” Kaner sighs again, exaggerating.

“You must.” Tazer says, then draws Kaner’s mouth to his in a long, slow, open-mouthed kiss. They suck at each other’s lips and tongues like they’re in no hurry, like they could do this all night. But when Kaner begins to withdraw Tazer tugs him back, reluctant to let him go. “No, wait. One more. One more,” he breathes, tilting Kaner’s chin up to take his mouth again.

The image they make is an attractive one. Tazer’s hands wide on Kaner’s ass, squeezing as he holds him close so Kaner’s pressed to his thigh. Kaner rocks against him slowly, pushing his crotch into that thigh as breathy moans escape his mouth, Tazer’s lips traveling down to his jaw, then his neck. 

It’s a lot to take in all at once, the realization that Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane are together, that in all likelihood they have been for a long time. It’s making Dylan a little hot under the collar at the same time he feels a grimace form across his face. It’s kind of like he just caught his parents fucking and the horror of it makes him stumble back and smack his shoulder into the wall.

Through the open door crack, he hears a giggle and then sudden, deathly quiet.

“Is someone out there?”

Dylan wishes he could jump out of a window, preferably into hot lava. “Oh, shit. It’s me! Um, Dylan. Stormer? Dylan Stromer. I mean, no, Dylan Strome. Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m really. I’m so sorry. My bad. Yeah, sorry.”

He bumps into another wall as he turns and flees, whispered laughter lingering behind him.

*

Dylan spends the next week thinking about what he saw in the bathroom at Murph’s apartment a lot. _A lot_ a lot. More than he probably should. 

It’s not even that he’s that surprised. He’d heard vague murmurings about how weird Tazer and Kaner are about each other before he joined the Hawks. He’s seen how they are with each other, different from everyone else, private in some ways, and tender in others, soft, always so soft.

He wonders if Alex knows, if it’s common knowledge among the team, even if it’s not out in the open publicly. They wouldn’t be the first or only pair of bonded hockey players. Maybe it means no one would care about him and Alex. If he and Alex ever became more. If Alex is even interested.

That’s probably a question Dylan should ask first. At some point.

*

For Alex’s twenty-first birthday the boys go out to Rockit and get a VIP room. They ply Alex with so much alcohol he’s barely able to stand by midnight. 

Dylan isn’t faring much better, swaying to a song that doesn’t have much of a beat besides thump, thump, thump, deep, then deeper. He remembers taking a few shots of Fireball about an hour ago, him and Alex inhaling a basket of wings like they hadn’t eaten in three days, and then jamming out for a while to a remix of Rita Ora’s Lonely Together. That was an hour ago. It’s hard to remember what happened in the ensuing time that passed except how he noticed Alex was passed out in the corner of the room and enlisted Tazer and Kaner to help him get Alex home.

It takes a bit of finesse to get Alex from the bar to the parking garage and in the backseat of Tazer’s car. He’s not standing so much as being pulled along by Tazer and Dylan, as Dylan tries to stay upright, Kaner on his other side, steadying him.

Once they’re all in and on the road Dylan pokes at Alex’s nose a few times to see if he’ll wake up. He doesn’t, but he’s still breathing. Excellent news.

Scooching up toward the middle of the back seat, Dylan leans forward, resting his arms on the center console as he tries to catch the time on the car radio. The numbers are pretty blurry but he thinks he catches a two and a five in there.

“So,” he says, looking between Tazer and Kaner. “How long have you guys been together?”

Somewhere in the back of his brain, he’s hitting the breaks on his mouth. Stop. _Stop_. _STOP_. He shouldn’t be asking this, it’s not any of his business, but he’s just been so curious since he caught them in the bathroom. And he’s not sure when he’ll get a chance to catch them both alone again, a few beers in them to loosen them up. At least that’s how his dumb brain rationalizes it.

He holds his breath and waits to be told off.

“On and off since we were about thirteen or fourteen,” Kaner says, sounding unbothered. “But we bonded for good seven years ago.”

 _Seven years_. 

“And you were sure? When you bonded? That this was it?” he asks, a little bolder this time.

“Yes,” Tazer says, no hesitation.

“But what about hockey? Were you guys ever worried it would, I don’t know, fuck things up? With your game or the team?”

They share a look between them that Dylan can’t decode and then Kaner smiles.

“I know for me it’s only made it all better. When we go out there I don’t ever have to question what Jonny’s thinking, I just know. And he knows me.”

“You don’t ever fight? Have disagreements?”

Tazer barks out a laugh. “ _Fuck_. All the time! But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You challenge each other and bring the best out of each other because of it.”

Dylan mulls this over for a second. “Did the league ever say anything?”

“You play well, the league is happy. Bottom line,” Kaner says. It’s not a confirmation or a denial, although Dylan knows there’s more to the story, that they’ve probably had their fair share of battles to overcome.

He nods.

The car goes quiet for a while, the only sound that of a song playing on low volume and traffic passing them by, the usual sounds of the city. There’s a siren in the distance and a honking horn. Dylan rubs a hand over his face, rests his head on the back of Kaner’s seat.

“Can I tell you guys something?” he asks, his mouth half-muffled as it’s pressed against leather.

Tazer glances over his shoulder for a second, taking Dylan in. “Sure, bud.”

“I don’t think I’m very good at being an alpha. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

Tazer’s eyes move from Dylan, to the road, to Kaner. The two of them sharing that same look again, speaking some special language Dylan will never understand.

“Jonny wasn’t always very good either.”

“Fuck off,” Tazer says, fond. “I’m great.”

Kaner fits his hand over Tazer’s thigh, his thumb rubbing up and down. “I just mean you had things to learn when you came into the NHL, about being a leader versus being a steamroller. What it meant to be a teammate versus the other half of a pair. We both figured out we were happier when we weren’t trying to force ourselves to pretend to be just teammates all the time. You’ll figure it out too.”

They make it sound so easy. There’s no way it’s that fucking easy.

Dylan sighs, miserable. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a mess.”

“It’s like when we’re practicing face-offs,” Tazer says. “You can try as hard as you want to follow the puck with your eyes, to see where it lands so you can get your stick on it first, but what it usually ends up coming down to is being in the right position and trusting your body to know what to do, to make the right move because it’s muscle memory after a certain point. It’s all muscle memory.”

“What if I fuck up?”

“You will,” Kaner says. “We all do. You think that’s exclusive to alphas?”

“He wishes.”

“I’d tell you not to take it all too seriously, but if you’re anything like this Goon,” Kaner points at Tazer, “those are wasted words.”

“Whatever, I’m super chill now. Dyl Pickle, my man, back me up!”

Dylan’s vision bounces between them, debating what to say and who he wants to possibly piss off less. He wonders if this is how they usually argue when they’re alone. He’s seen them get pretty heated on the bench, bickering about passing and who was open or if they should’ve taken the shot. Angry in a way Dylan thought meant they’d definitely wouldn’t be talking to each other later, although that was never actually the case. It’s interesting to see how they flip a switch and change from those passionate and often heated arguments they have while playing to now, when they’ve left the ice and all it becomes more teasing, lighthearted, impish. 

“He was doing the wave earlier at the club,” Dylan offers, unhelpfully.

Tazer pumps his fist in victory. “See! And you say I never dance.”

“You weren’t dancing. You were making fun of dancing.”

“I slow dance.” Tazer frowns.

Kaner tries to fight the smile working across his mouth, but he fails. He squeezes Tazer’s thigh. “I know, baby.”

They pull into Alex’s parking garage a few minutes later and Dylan’s feeling considerably less lucid and more tired by the time he drags himself out of the back seat. Alex is snoring lightly, dead to the world even as the three of them try to gently and then not so gently coax him awake. Tazer makes an executive decision to carry Alex up to his apartment while Kaner will help Dylan stay on his feet as they trail behind.

“You got him?” Tazer grunts, Alex folded over his shoulder like a child, arms floppy and noodle-like. Tazer’s face is flushed from getting Alex out of the car without smacking his head against the door, but he doesn’t seem otherwise fatigued.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Kaner says, letting Dylan lean on his shoulders. “You guys go ahead.”

Tazer scans the parking garage like he’s trying to look for any potential threats that might pop up amid the Teslas and Mercedes Benzes and when he finds nothing suspicious continues on his way. He reminds Dylan of his neighbor’s pit bull, always rushing to the fence to bark at anyone near his property, equally ready to be your best friend as soon as you scratched that spot behind his ear, never quite as scary as he wanted to seem.

His name was Cheeto Batman. Dylan never knew the origin of the name, but he laughs thinking of it now, his laughter growing louder the longer the words repeat in his head. He realizes he’s practically hanging on Kaner as they enter the elevator.

“Am I squishing you? I don’t mean to squish. Coach wouldn’t be very happy if I did that. Or Tazer. Oh shit. Tell him it was an accident, k?”

“You’re alright, kid,” Kaner says, patting his back so gently it barely feels like a touch, but he looks charmed.

Dylan is deposited on the couch once they get inside the apartment and Kaner helps Tazer, presumably, get Alex to his bed. He thinks he remembers waving goodbye to them as he lays down, eyelids shutting and his head cushioned on a throw pillow. He thinks hours pass, but time feels fuzzy and he isn’t sure. When he hears his voice being called he crawls towards Alex’s room, slumping down by the head of Alex’s bed. Alex reaches out and touches his hair.

“You’re here,” he says, grinning, eyes still mostly closed.

“Course I am. Where else would I be?”

“C’mere,” Alex murmurs, wiggling to the edge of the bed.

Dylan leans in, expecting Alex to whisper something ridiculous into his ear, maybe give him a wet-willy. He receives a soft press of lips against his own instead. In his shock he doesn’t move, his brain tripping on some wire that’s not connecting the dots for him. Alex smells of liquor and sweat, but he’s warm like Dylan’s always known him to be and his mouth is sweet.

He wants to press into the kiss so much it’s an ache straining through every single one of his muscles. He pulls away.

“You should sleep.”

Alex’s eyes open and stare at him for a long, painful beat before falling away. He sways backward abruptly like he’s been stung and then forward, his face going deathly pale.

“Dylan. Dylan?”

“Yeah? I’m here,” Dylan whispers, trying to right him as he stumbles out of bed.

“‘M gonna puke.”

“Shit. Okay. Let’s get you to the toilet. Hold on, buddy. Don’t let it out yet.”

The following hour is spent in the bathroom as Alex vomits all of his guts up and possibly whatever’s left of the food he ate last week. Dylan brings him water and a cold wet washcloth, pressing it to his forehead in between his bouts of heaving. It’s still dark by the time it seems to have stopped enough Dylan can pull Alex up off the floor and tuck him back into bed, moaning wretchedly.

“Never drinking again.”

“Fuckin’ same,” Dylan agrees, climbing into the bed behind him. He doesn’t intend to fall asleep, just stick around long enough to make sure Alex won’t get sick again.

It’s a lie. He’s almost passed out, face smooshed into Alex’s pillow when he feels a tug on his shirt.

“You never disappointed me,” Alex says.

Dylan sucks in a sharp breath as those words hit him, and it slices him wide open. He doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting, wanting, needing to hear someone say this to him. Waiting for Alex to say this to him. He can feel himself shedding his skin in the darkness of this room, muscle and sinew giving way to bone. He cracks his rib cage and lets his heart fall out onto the bed, settling in the empty inches between them.

“I missed you so bad, Kit. Everything feels right. Doesn’t it? It was so off when we were apart. But it’s good now. It’s like it’s supposed to be,” he says, his words spilling out like his insides.

The silence hangs heavy for several minutes. 

Then, “Stay.” 

Dylan curls into the body pulling him closer. “Okay.”

*

In the morning Dylan wakes up alone, the space beside him long gone cold. His head feels like a sheet of concrete being pounded into dust by a sledgehammer. He goes in search of water and ibuprofen in the bathroom; pissing for an entire millennium and then dragging himself into the living room. Alex is cocooned in a blanket on the couch, barely visible amongst the chenille. What Dylan can make out of his face is pale cheeks and shadowed circles under his eyes. The TV is on, turned down to a low, Ralph asleep at his feet as he watches something on Animal Planet.

“How you doin’?” Dylan asks. He hands over the ibuprofen and a fresh bottle of water.

“I feel like ass,” Alex mumbles, taking the proffered items. When he sits up it disrupts Ralph who jumps off the couch to happily come greet him.

“You need me to get you anything? Some juice? Some food?”

Alex gags, minutely shaking his head. “No. No, no, no, no food. No food ever again.”

“Feelin’ queasy?” he asks and stands before Alex even nods. “I know what to do. Be back in a bit.”

He grabs Ralph’s leash and hooks it to his collar, slips his wallet that’s sitting on the floor in the hallway into his pocket, and takes a walk a few blocks down to the nearest fast food joint. He orders three large fries, five hashbrowns, and two egg and bacon sandwiches.

Back at the apartment he unloads the food, makes sure Ralph is fed, then hands Alex a carton of fries and a red Gatorade.

“I’m not eating that.” Alex scowls.

“You gotta. It’ll soak up all the bad shit in your stomach. I promise. Trust me.” He flashes Alex what he hopes is his most wholesome and convincing smile, and is rewarded with a tiny twitch of Alex’s lips.

“Fine. Give it.”

They watch whatever Animal Planet show is on while they eat, something called River Monsters about giant fish that eat people in, predictably, rivers. He sneaks three fries to Ralph when no one is looking and receives a small lick on the hand as payment. Worth it.

“Better?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Alex says, looking more awake and alive, his cheeks less pallid now. “Thank you.”

He waits for Alex to bring up the attempted kiss from last night. If he’s being honest he’s been waiting for it since the moment he stepped into the living room after waking. The more the minutes tick by, though, he has a sinking feeling it isn’t going to happen. And the silent uneasiness thick in the air is a fist at the back of his throat, slowly opening.

“You know, I think your puke was green at one point last night, man. What’d you even eat that was bright green?”

Alex is startled into a laugh. “I’m not sure. Nothing? Seabs gave me something yellow, maybe. He told me not to think just drink it, so I did.”

“What’d it taste like?”

“Lemon-lime maybe? Did I look like the girl from The Exorcist last night when I was hacking it up?”

Dylan starts cackling. “It _was_ kinda spewing out of you.” His laughter builds as he pantomimes the classic scene from the movie, his arms jetting forward and back from his face, hands spread wide.

“You look like a fuckin’ water sprinkler,” Alex says, but he laughs until he chokes on his own spit.

*

Christmas comes and goes in such a flurry Dylan barely remembers seeing his family before he and Alex are back on the grind again, the end of the year quickly approaching as the Hawks drop several games in a row. Dom goes into heat a few days before they’re supposed to head to Notre Dame for the Winter Classic. There’s worry he’ll miss the game New Year’s day, but he assures Coach and management he has an alpha in place to help him through it quickly.

Dylan runs into him leaving the UC on the first day of his heat and is bowled over by the pheromones rolling off of him in waves. A spike of hot, slick need pulses through him, his dick twitching, his body acting without his permission. He turns, running in the opposite direction without saying anything to Dom, a weird lurch dropping his stomach like an elevator as he tries to parse through what his body is saying to him in contradiction with his brain.

He doesn’t want Dom. He’s never wanted Dom.

He hides in the bathroom for twenty minutes until it passes, his hands shaky on the porcelain edge of the sink, the tap running as he splashes water onto his face.

The door opens minutes later and Tazer strolls in. He seems unaware of Dylan while he moves to a urinal and pisses, only taking him in when he’s stepped up to the sinks to wash his hands.

His brow furrows. “Stromer, you okay?”

Dylan could lie, it’s what most guys would do, just blow it off and suck it up, pretend whatever’s bothering him is fine. Except he’s never been a very good liar.

“I don’t know,” he says, distressed, his voice uneven. “I ran into Dom.”

“Ah, I see. Did anything happen?”

He doesn’t sound accusatory when he asks, just measuring, careful.

Dylan’s eyes widen. “What? No! No way. Definitely not. I wouldn’t...no. I just. That was the first time I’ve been that close to an omega in heat...since I presented.”

Tazer nods, apparently satisfied with this answer, the even keel he carries with him everywhere he goes returning to the solid set of his shoulders. “It’s an involuntary reaction. You’ll learn to control it better over time. Kinda like how when you first start sporting boners at random times when you hit puberty. It’s nothing to beat yourself up over.” 

“Do omegas feel this draw too?”

“Yeah. It’s just biology. Hormones. It’s not any more real than the weight you give it.”

“Right,” Dylan says, low. It’s amazing how just when he thinks he’s getting a handle on this whole thing new obstacles and problems introduce themselves.

A wry grin draws up the edge of Tazer’s mouth. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“I can tell you have a question. Just ask it.”

“Oh. Um,” Dylan coughs, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing any embarrassing hand gestures. “Is it like that with you and Kaner?”

“If you mean do I react to him when he goes into heat, then yes. But it’s about a thousand times more intense and significant. It’s meaningful because of what we are to each other. But maybe it’s different for different people. I’m not an expert on this stuff. I’m only an expert in Kaner.”

Later Dylan replays this conversation in his head, in bed while he’s falling asleep, on the plane that flies them to Notre Dame, during dinner in the ballroom of the hotel on New Year’s Eve.

He constantly overthinks shit he shouldn’t and runs headfirst into the moments he should take a moment to step back and consider. His judgment is a mess on the best of days. He’s a mess on all of the rest. 

Alex has been quieter since the night of his birthday and Dylan’s fucked it all up by not saying anything. They’re getting farther away from wherever they were in the spinning, hazy seconds of that blue-black hour, the world around them gone as gravity pulled them close and closer together.

Maybe his mistake wasn’t jumping in blind then as he should have. 

Dylan doesn’t know much, but he knows Alex. 

Maybe that’s all that matters.

When the clock hits midnight he sees everyone around him hug and kiss each other, their families, their significant others. He looks around for Alex and notices him leaving the ballroom alone.

Dylan rushes through the crowd, around tables and chairs, catching Alex in the empty hallway.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Back to the room. To bed,” he says, throwing out a small wave. He continues on his way.

“Alex?” Dylan says, voice rising, as he runs to catch up.

“Yeah?” Alex stops, looking up at him now. His eyes are bright and clear, his face searching as Dylan cups his shoulders. He doesn’t move away.

There’s no ground beneath him. He’s a mess and doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

But fuck it, he’s taking the next step anyway.

“I wanted to kiss you back that night. I just didn’t want it to be when you were drunk and might forget.” He moves his hands from Alex’s shoulder to his neck, fingers barely skimming warm skin. He brushes his thumbs over Alex’s cheeks and feels stubble catching on his fingertips.

“I wouldn’t forget you,” Alex says, and smiles Dylan’s favorite smile.

Dylan has to stare at him for a minute and take him in, everything they are, and everything they can be. Warmth surrounds him like a living thing, circling them. 

“What are you waiting for?” Alex asks, impatient.

And that’s a good question.

Dylan doesn’t bother answering, just leans down and takes Alex’s mouth gently, softly, pressing their lips together over and over. 

*

It goes like this: the puck touches his stick, he passes it, Alex scores. Again and again and again.

They win again and again and again.

This feels like a win too, him pressing his mouth to Alex’s neck, he touches him all over, his hands moving like his mouth moves, slow and delicate, earnest for more, but patient, hopeful. They come in their pants the first time, rubbing against each other on the bed.

The next few times are all bare skin and tangled limbs, come smeared overheated bellies and thighs. Alex’s tongue on his cock is evil and blissful as he takes Dylan apart. He feels ruined with the way Alex will whimper when Dylan takes him in his own mouth, swallowing him as far down as he’s able, his fingers slippery over Alex’s hole, just barely dipping inside.

“More,” Alex growls. “More, more, c’mon!”

Dylan takes his time opening him up further, working his rim as indulgently as possible until he can fit two fingers in and press against Alex’s prostate. He milks it until Alex shakes as he comes, cursing up a storm and yanking on Dylan’s hair.

Afterward, Dylan kisses the inside of his legs from ankle to hip, teeth dragging over muscle but never biting in. Alex whines like he’s almost disappointed.

*

Their first loss after the win streak leaves them both in a foul mood. Alex wants something that he won’t ask for or is unable to verbalize and Dylan doesn’t know what to do for him.

They spend the next two days sniping at each other over stupid things like accidentally leaving the fridge door open, plates on the top shelf of the dishwasher, and not refilling the toilet paper holder once it’s empty.

Whatever’s in the air that starts with them travels to the locker room and sticks there like tacky glue during practice. Duncs is grouchy and mostly nonverbal, Perls is slower during drills than Dylan’s seen him in a while, and Tazer and Kaner have been bickering about the power play again. At one point Tazer skates up behind Kaner and bear hugs him, his arms around Kaner’s entire torso as they couple skate across the rink. Kaner breaks loose after a minute like he’s done with it all, but he’s smiling to himself as he’s stickhandling pucks in a corner alone.

“You mad at Tazer?” Dylan asks a few mornings later when they’re eating breakfast in the UC cafeteria.

Kaner gifts him with a raised eyebrow, but nothing more.

It’s none of his business, and he should learn to just stay in his own lane, but his parents are betas and if he needs advice about relationships it only makes sense to go to one as solid as the coveted Kane and Toews. They already feel like his parents in a way. Or maybe his uncles. If any of his uncles were gay.

“Alex is mad at me. Not sure what I should do,” he says.

Next to Kaner on the couch is Jules who pauses mid-bite to glance between them, like he’s afraid he might be asked for advice too. When no question comes he goes silently relieved back to his omelet.

Kaner pauses the game tape they were watching, rewinding it to the bit he missed, then pauses it again. “Apologize. Stop being stubborn about whatever it is you’re probably being stubborn about.” 

Dylan nods, mentally jotting this all down. “Anything else?”

“And make sure your passes are on point next game.”

“Got it. I’m on top of it. CAN. DO,” Dylan salutes.

Jules rolls his eyes.

Kaner’s already absorbed in the game tape again.

*

They win that night in OT, Alex picking up his fourth hat trick against Ottawa. When they get home Alex tears at Dylan’s clothes until he’s tripping through the house with his suit pants around his ankles. He’s pushed down onto the couch, Alex already dripping slick as he straddles Dylan’s lap and sinks down on his cock so fast Dylan’s soul temporarily leaves his body.

He tries to kiss Alex’s neck and that sensitive spot near his collarbone, but Alex won’t let him, too busy raking his hands through Dylan’s hair and shoving his tongue down Dylan’s throat. He fucks his mouth and sucks on his lips until they feel fat and bruised from the attention.

He grips onto Alex’s hips as he feels his orgasm begin to rise.

“Press harder,” Alex moans, his ass like a vice around Dylan’s cock. He clenches to make it all the sweeter and Dylan is losing himself quickly, too soon.

He starts to move his hands from Alex’s hips to his dick, flushed a pretty pink and leaking a stream of precome from the plump head to his balls. Dylan wants to touch him immediately. If he could suck Alex while he fucked him he’d do that too.

“Don’t move your hands.” Alex growls, placing them back on his hips and pressing Dylan’s fingers into his skin until the flesh around his fingers goes white. “Please,” he says.

He’s close now too, undulating in Dylan’s lap like he’s running toward that perfect end. And Dylan can’t deny him this or anything else. Whatever he wants. 

“Wanna do this forever,” Dylan murmurs into Alex’s ear, digging his fingernails into his sturdy hips, into smooth muscle and coming the instant he hears the beautiful, wrecked gasp that escapes Alex’s throat.

Alex rides him until he’s oversensitized and biting at the join of Alex’s shoulder. He spills between them when Dylan grips him by the neck and tells him, “Come for me now.”

*

It’s 3:23 AM when Dylan feels Alex shake him awake.

“What? What’s going on?” he says, groggy and sleep dumb.

“Nothing. I just need to tell you something,” Alex says and he sounds remarkably awake like he’s been up for a while, like perhaps he didn’t even sleep at all.

“At...three in the morning?” 

“Yes.”

“Is it bad? Because if it’s bad I’d prefer to wait until morning,” Dylan jokes, turning away dramatically to snuggle into his pillow.

Alex pushes at his shoulder. “Don’t make me laugh. This is serious.”

His voice cracks on the word serious and that tears at Dylan’s chest. It’s a shot of adrenaline through his veins, sleepiness gone as he sits up against the headboard so he and Alex are in parallel. 

“Serious. Okay,” he takes a shallow breath and nods. “Go.”

Alex swallows. “You have to stop treating me like I’m fragile. I’m not a fucking child. You don’t have to be gentle.”

Dylan’s mouth drops open because he hadn’t realized...he didn’t think that’s what he’s been doing.

“How should I treat you?”

“Like everyone else,” Alex says like it’s obvious. “If you’re rough with them, then be rough with me. Stop holding back.”

“But you’re not everyone else to me,” Dylan says. He hasn’t done a very good job making that clear if this is something Alex is questioning now.

“Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean you have to take it easy on me.” 

Alex isn’t looking away from him, he isn’t looking at anything but Dylan and Dylan can feel those big, expressive eyes on him like a tattoo being branded into his skin.

“That’s not. I’m not doing that. I’m trying to take care of you.”

“Why?” Alex asks.

And Dylan knows this isn’t a secret, that Alex’s always understood him even when Dylan didn’t understand himself, even when he was a scrawny seventeen year old trying to find his way. But if he needs to hear it out loud then Dylan will say it at the top of his lungs, he’ll say it every day.

“Because you’re mine, Kit. Even before I came here, even before I presented. You were mine.”

Alex lets out a shaky breath, his eyes finally closing. When he opens them they’re glassy, his long dark eyelashes clumped together and wet.

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” Alex laughs, then yanks Dylan on top of him as they sink back down into the bed.

Dylan can’t help himself, he has to fit his hand around Alex’s jaw and brush his thumb over Alex’s bottom lip, feel his warm breath over his fingertips. “Can I kiss you?”

Alex swipes his tongue out to drag over Dylan’s fingers. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Dylan says.

He licks into Alex’s mouth like he’s taking his first sip of water after a long drought, hungry and deep. It’s so good every time he should be used to it by now, but it still fries his brain how he can go from zero to completely amped up the second their lips touch. 

“God, you’re so….,” Alex says, breathless.

“So what?”

“ _Soft_ ,” he says, blushing. He looks almost bashful.

Dylan smirks, his heart pounding so hard it hurts. “You like it,” he says, cocky.

And Alex huffs out a laugh, leaning up to kiss Dylan’s neck. “Fuck me, I do. I really do.”

They make out until Alex curses and spreads his legs, their bodies slotting into place. They were naked when they went to bed so it doesn’t take much effort for Dylan to press his cock to Alex’s slick hole and slide inside. He fucks him deep, just this side of hard as he bends Alex’s legs up to his chest. He listens to Alex’s moans, the hitching of his breath that turns into irregular panting. He watches Alex’s eyes go dark then roll up into his head as he squeezes them shut.

He’s so busy giving Alex exactly what he needs his own pleasure feels like it takes a backseat to the events until without warning his knot is popping, growing inside of Alex and making them both unexpectedly cry out.

“Should I-should I stop?” he asks, toes curling as Alex bears down on him, tightening perfectly.

“No. Give it to me. I want it,” he moans. He pushes his hips up, trying to draw Dylan in even farther, to the hilt. “I want you.”

Dylan would be embarrassed about how that makes him blow his load before he’s ready, _again_ , but he gets to watch Alex come on his knot twice before it goes down, and, well, he can only feel smug about that.

*

Dylan has this memory of when he was nine or ten and his parents took him to a water park during their annual summer vacation. The day was scorching hot and perfect for jumping into a tube and riding down a waterslide five thousand times. Ryan was practically a lobster by midday because he refused to re-apply his suntan lotion, Matty wouldn’t shut up about getting a cherry slushie, no one would go on the lazy river with Dylan after the third trip, and the park was full of chaos, kids crying, screaming, the loud skeleton lady that wouldn’t stop arguing with the clerk at the hamburger stand about her refund. 

Earlier his parents had fought about something trivial involving beach towels or Matty pissing in the wave pool, or that no one was listening to Mom. Dad was grouchy and Mom was silent on the drive home, and he remembers they hadn’t smiled at each other much throughout the afternoon or evening. By the end of it, his parents were exhausted. They barely managed to get everyone into bed at the rental condo they were staying at for the week before they passed out on the couch watching the nightly news.

At the time Dylan was more focused on sneaking another hour of reading in to give it a second thought. He forgot about it until the next morning when he woke before his brothers and snuck out of the room he was sharing with Matty to watch cartoons alone. He’d tip-toed through the condo afraid of waking his parents and starting yet another argument, but he was stopped short when he walked passed the kitchen and saw his parents swaying together to some soft song. There was a pan of bacon frying on the stove and an apron around Dad’s waist like he’d paused making breakfast to twirl Mom in circles and whisper sweet nothings into her ear. Her long hair fanned out around both of them as she tipped her head back and laughed when he dipped her low.

It’s a closely held memory that plays like an old movie reel inside of his head, the moment painted in yellows and golds, ethereal and ineffable. A relic from his life he always carries with him.

He’s carried Alex with him too, in memory or in hand one way or another since the first day he saw him, without realizing what it meant, what course they were charting or how it would lead him here.

He notices Tazer and Kaner on the plane as they fly from Chicago to their next game. Tazer’s sitting in the aisle seat, Kaner beside him, head pillowed on his shoulder and eyes shut. It’s what everyone that walks past them can see. It’s not unusual. But the trick is to look past the obvious and catch the small things, the tiny treasures everyone else ignores, like Tazer’s hand curled over Kaner’s wrist, Kaner’s leg pressed to his, the arm rail that isn’t dividing them.

He wonders if this is what he and Alex will be like in seven years, if they’ll be as happy in twenty years like his parents, or forty years like Alex’s grandparents, if he’ll even be in Chicago next year, if hockey will take him far, if he’s finally getting the hang of any of it.

Maybe he doesn’t need to know yet. This isn’t the end. 

It's just the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> *roll credits*
> 
> *[play The Decemberists](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBRoktLNrfk&t=0s&index=2&list=LLauBRrcn1SUhTLym_AThQpA)*


End file.
